French President Macron sues right-wing podcaster Candace Owens
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'This is a foreign government attacking the First Amendment rights of an American independent journalist,' the spokesperson said.
The French Embassy could not be reached for comment.
Tom Clare, an attorney representing the Macrons, called the suit a 'clear-cut case of defamation.'
The Macrons said in a statement that they 'concluded that referring the matter to a court of law was the only remaining avenue for remedy' after three retraction requests were disregarded.
Owens worked for the Daily Wire and Turning Point USA before starting her own podcast. She has more than 4.4 million subscribers on YouTube.
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Boston Globe
3 minutes ago
- Boston Globe
A Kennedy toils in Mississippi, tracing his grandfather's path
Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up Kennedy nodded to the history. 'I know a bit about my grandfather's visit to the Delta back in the '60s, and how it changed and outraged him to see this in the richest country in the world,' he said. 'I'm proud that my family has spent a lot of their years in office advocating for these people.' Advertisement Kennedy is on a mission to continue the legacy of an American political family that has in recent years lost some of its liberal luster. It angers him that his uncle Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the health and human services secretary, is a key figure in an administration that is overturning core values of his family. Advertisement The health secretary has defended work requirements for Medicaid recipients, 'which do not work,' the younger Kennedy said. 'The only thing they succeed at is kicking people off Medicaid who need it.' On the elder Kennedy's efforts to ban food dyes, his nephew dismissively replied, 'It's not the dyes that are making people obese.' Still, he shares with his uncle the belief that Democrats are increasingly captive to an urban elite. 'I think the Democratic Party has lost touch with this reality,' he said, staring out at the Delta landscape. Joe Kennedy III and his wife, Lauren Anne Birchfield, arrived at the JFK Library, Sunday, May 4, 2025, in Boston. Robert F. Bukaty/Associated Press Kennedy's response is not to run for president as his grandfather did and his uncle might, or at least not yet. Instead he has formed the Groundwork Project, a nonprofit that seeks to develop a network of grassroots resistance in four deep-red states -- Mississippi, Alabama, Oklahoma and West Virginia -- that have received little attention from left-leaning organizations. Without any meaningful opposition, Kennedy said, those states have become havens for right-wing initiatives, ranging from the evisceration of the Clean Air Act in West Virginia to legislation in Mississippi that banned abortions after 15 weeks and led to the Supreme Court's decision overturning Roe v. Wade. 'The only way to change the power structures in those states is to organize people,' Kennedy said. 'That's not a short fix. But what else can you do?' The slow grind of organization-building in hostile territory that Kennedy envisions has been done before, mostly by conservative groups like Americans for Prosperity, which was formed in 2004, operates in 35 states and has an annual operating budget of more than $186 million. In contrast, the Groundwork Project operates on a relatively modest $2.8 million a year, much of it disbursed as $25,000 annual grants to about 40 local groups that have fought uphill battles in areas like environmental justice and reproductive rights. Advertisement But the famous name helps. During a three-day trip to Mississippi to observe the efforts that Groundwork Project is helping to underwrite, locals sometimes referred to its founder in awed tones as 'a Kennedy.' During one gathering of local officials, at a diner in Yazoo City, Kennedy addressed the subject of health care by invoking his lineage, saying, 'My family has focused on this for a long time.' In the next breath, Kennedy pointedly brought up another relative: 'My uncle is now part of an administration that is cutting Medicaid.' Jim Kessler, the executive vice president for policy of the centrist Democratic organization Third Way, speculated about the political subtext of Kennedy's criticisms of his uncle. 'It's all but certain that Bobby Jr. is going to run for president as a Republican in 2028,' Kessler said. 'Maybe part of what the younger Kennedy is doing is reclaiming the family legacy as a way to remind people, 'This is who we really are.'' Joseph P. Kennedy III spoke at Atlantic Technical University in Letterkenny, Donegal, Ireland on Oct. 2. Conor Doherty The Oral History of Family Lore Kennedy was not yet born when Sen. Robert F. Kennedy's quest for the presidency was cut short by an assassin's bullet in California in June 1968. The 42-year-old candidate left behind his widow, Ethel, and their 11 children, among them Robert Jr. and Joseph, Joe Kennedy III's father, who would go on to serve in Congress from 1987 to 1999. Kennedy said that he has never read a book about his grandfather, since from infancy he marinated in the oral history of family lore. Inculcated in him were RFK adages such as, 'The gross national product can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.' Advertisement His own trajectory followed the meticulously laid Kennedy path of public service merging with political advancement. He spent his childhood in Boston before attending Stanford University and subsequently serving two years in the Dominican Republic as a Peace Corps volunteer. He returned home to Massachusetts, graduated from Harvard Law School and then worked as an assistant district attorney in Middlesex County. It came as little surprise in February 2012 when he announced his desire to fill the congressional seat soon to be vacated by Rep. Barney Frank. Kennedy -- an earnest and energetic 31-year-old scion with a genetically distinctive aquiline nose, a toothy grin and wavy red hair that deviated from the family's physical template -- coasted to victory without serious opposition. The freshman won over many colleagues in the House, several of whom said in interviews that they had been braced for an entitled brat and instead encountered someone who was thoughtful and unpretentious. He set out to lead on mental health issues as his cousin, Patrick Kennedy, had done before retiring from Congress in 2011. But Kennedy said he grew dismayed by the chamber's partisan divisions and inexplicable lethargy, recalling, 'Even in the majority, I couldn't move my own bills.' By Kennedy's fourth term, restlessness had gotten the better of him. In September 2019, he announced his candidacy for the Senate, a body in which three Kennedy legends -- his grandfather; his great-uncle, the former president; and his great-uncle Ted -- had previously served. He garnered the support of Rep. Nancy Pelosi, the Democrat who was then the minority leader. Advertisement But the 73-year-old Democratic incumbent, Sen. Edward J. Markey, outfoxed his younger opponent by recasting himself as a rabble-rousing progressive in the manner of Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York, who endorsed Markey. Kennedy, whose tendency is to speak in carefully constructed paragraphs, struggled to come up with his own pithy pitch to voters. Markey won the September 2020 primary by 11 points, and Kennedy became the first in his family to be defeated in a senatorial contest. President Donald Trump gloated on Twitter, 'Pelosi strongly backed the loser!' Being spurned and disparaged by liberal activists was unfamiliar terrain for a Kennedy, and he spent the remainder of 2020 contemplating his options. 'Losing sucks,' Kennedy said. 'But I made the decision to try to build something that keeps you engaged and energized. And if something comes up, perhaps you take it, but you're not sitting around waiting for that to happen.' Joe Kennedy delivered his election-night in Watertown on Sept. 1, 2020, in his unsuccessful Senate race against Ed Markey John Tlumacki/Globe Staff 'You Democrats Think We Don't Know How to Work?' Rejected by progressive activists, Kennedy turned to forgotten agrarian lands like the Mississippi Delta, which has only one major city (Jackson), and is therefore difficult to organize. It's 'what I call a hard-to-fight state,' said Charles Taylor, the executive director of Mississippi's NAACP chapter. Similar impediments exist in Oklahoma, where Republican legislators have passed severe restrictions on abortion and on what can be taught in public school classrooms about racism. Alabama, a third Groundwork Project state, benefits from a more urban population than Oklahoma or Mississippi. But Democratic get-out-the-vote organizers have been reluctant to operate in a state where there is no in-person early voting and where absentee ballots must be signed by a notary or two voting-age witnesses. Advertisement West Virginia is by far the most challenging for Kennedy. Its overwhelmingly rural and white population was long Democratic, but the collapse of the coal and steel industries in the state have spawned a profound distrust of party elites, Kennedy said. He recalled a visit to West Virginia just after he founded the Groundwork Project, when a bearded young man asked him, 'How come you Democrats think we don't know how to work?' To every such question, Kennedy's implicit answer was to organize. 'I think Mississippi has so much to teach our nation about resilience, never losing focus and not giving up when your government is actively working against you,' he said at an event in Indianola. Kennedy is applying the same calm resolve to his own political future. He and his wife, Lauren Birchfield Kennedy, an attorney and children's advocate, have a 6-year-old son and a 9-year-old daughter. Kennedy laments having missed so much of their infancy while serving in Washington. 'The question is, is what I would get out of going back into elective office worth the sacrifice that I asked my family to go through again?' For now, Kennedy is content to leave the question unanswered. 'I'm 44,' he said. 'And at some point down the road, I wouldn't necessarily rule anything out.' This article originally appeared in
Los Angeles Times
33 minutes ago
- Los Angeles Times
A Syrian American returned to Syria to aid his ailing father. He was executed in sectarian violence
SWEIDA, Syria — The first video opens with Hosam Saraya, a 35-year-old Syrian American and seven other members of his family, walking in a procession down a street, their hands placed on the shoulders of the person in front of them, escorted by gunmen wearing fatigues and waving assault rifles. One of the gunmen says, 'We gave you safe passage,' while others shout religious slogans. Another video shot on July 16 cuts to Saraya and his relatives kneeling in the middle of a roundabout. One of the gunmen speaks to a family member, his voice becoming more menacing as his anger mounts. Then the shooting starts, and Saraya and the others collapse to the ground. Saraya, a member of the Druze religious minority, was living in Oklahoma but had returned to the family home in the Druze-majority city of Sweida to take care of his ill father, relatives said. 'His father improved, and Hosam was supposed to come back to Oklahoma in a month. We're in complete disbelief and shock,' said one U.S.-based relative who refused to be identified, fearing reprisals against her family in Syria. 'We just never thought something like this could happen to us.' Saraya studied finance and accounting at Damascus University before moving to the U.S. in 2014, where he earned an MBA at Oklahoma Christian University. Afterward, he worked as an operations manager at a senior home care company and became a U.S. citizen. He was unmarried. Saraya was among an estimated 1,380 people killed in a spasm of sectarian violence that swept through Sweida this month, when fighting between Bedouin clansmen and Druze militiamen escalated into armed clashes that drew in Syria's fledgling government and Israel, which said it intervened to protect the Druze community. Government forces were supposed to quash any fighting between Bedouins and Druze, residents and Saraya's neighbors say. Instead they left behind a trail of looting, burning homes and the execution of more than 230 civilians, according to the Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, a war monitor. This week, Sen. James Lankford (R-Okla.) said he was 'heartbroken' by the death of Saraya, who he said 'was an Oklahoman ... tragically executed alongside other members of his family in Syria.' Relatives in the U.S. said they had been interviewed by the FBI. The Syrian government has yet to reach out to the family here, but said it would hold all government forces accountable for violations. The violence, the third round of sectarian violence to hit Syria since the new Islamist government toppled longtime President Bashar Assad nine months ago, threatens to bring about the disintegration of a country struggling to move on from its 14-year civil war. At the Saraya home in Sweida, signs of the violence are everywhere — walls pockmarked by shrapnel from a hand grenade and family pictures and mirrors cracked by bullet holes. Sitting morosely in the midst of the destruction, one of his relatives, Dima Saraya, 41, recounted what she described as a living nightmare that left her a widow. Most of the family was sleeping when gunmen in fatigues surrounded the house around 6 a.m., shooting the lock off the gate before breaking into the house. Woken up by the commotion, the men told the women and children to stay inside while they went out to stop the gunmen. 'They didn't have any weapons. If they did, those people would have killed them on the spot,' Dima said, adding that one of the fighters, who identified himself as Abu Jaafar, said he was part of the government's General Security apparatus and that they should come with him. When the men refused to go, the fighters responded with a spray of bullets, a hand grenade, and two RPGs to the upper floor. They decided to surrender and as Saraya and the others filed out, Dima and the others ran outside, crying and pleading that the men stay. One of the fighters pointed his rifle at Dima's chest and told her to go inside before he shot her. Later, Dima said, after the gunmen finished searching the house, their leader reassured her, 'Don't worry. We won't hurt them. In two hours — or by morning — they'll be back. I promise they'll be safe.' 'By then he had already killed them,' Dima said. After the gunmen left, others soon followed. Each time a new group came, they accused the family of hiding weapons and searched the house. Each time they looted: One fighter demanded the gold necklace on Dima's neck and the jewelry from the other women. Another asked for the keys to one of the cars downstairs. Yet another, in a fit of rage, threatened to rape Dima. By the time the last band of fighters arrived, it was 2:30 in the afternoon. They said they would execute everyone in the house, Dima said, but then one of the fighters said, 'Leave them. There are pretty women among them.' They again demanded jewelry or car keys, but Dima replied that there was nothing left to take. When the fighters went outside to continue looting, Dima and 14 other family members ran to a neighbor's house and locked the door, staying silent and hoping they wouldn't be noticed. 'We didn't dare go out to search for anyone. We were too terrified,' Dima said. That night, as videos of the killings — many of them gleefully taken by the gunmen themselves as they tortured and executed Druze — surfaced on social media, the Saraya family looked for signs of their loved ones. It wasn't till the next morning that someone came to the door and told them to come collect the bodies of their relatives. That task fell to another relative, Mutassem Jbaai. 'Each body had more than 50 bullet holes. There was blood everywhere. It was like they were mangled,' he said, wincing at the memory. The U.S. State Department said on Thursday it was having direct discussions with the Syrian government on Saraya's killing, and that it called for 'an immediate investigation,' according to department deputy spokesman Tommy Pigott. 'Hosam and his family deserve justice, and those responsible for this atrocity must be held accountable,' Pigott said. Yet among the Saraya family, few believe the Syrian government will do anything to bring justice. They point to earlier bouts of sectarian bloodshed that have gone unpunished. 'We can't live like this. When Assad fell, we had a bit of hope and gave them a chance,' said the U.S.-based relative. 'But as the saying goes, 'once a terrorist, always a terrorist.' '
NBC News
an hour ago
- NBC News
Rick Huether, CEO of the Independent Can Company. Eric Kayne for NBC News Checkbook Chronicles Kicking the can down the road on tariffs won't work for this Maryland manufacturer Independent Can Company has raised prices twice this year already after Trump imposed 25% duties on steel in March, and then doubled them in June.
July 26, 2025, 7:15 AM EDT By Emily Lorsch When Rick Huether strolls the floors of his four manufacturing plants — two in Maryland and two in Ohio — employees' typical greetings such as, 'Hey, how's the family?' have been increasingly replaced with, 'Hey Rick, should I be looking for a job somewhere else?' Huether, the CEO of Independent Can Company, has had to raise prices on customers twice this year and it's the third time since President Donald Trump's first term. 'It's frustrating,' Huether said of the Trump administration's ever-evolving tariff agenda, which now includes 50% import taxes on the foreign-made steel his company relies on. 'I can't run my business the way I want to run it.' Huether, a Republican, said he shares the administration's goal of reinvigorating American industry. 'We want to bring as much manufacturing back to this country as you can. And as a family, we made a strategic commitment to being the specialty can maker in America with American workers,' he said. 'We want to be here.' But according to Huether, Trump has made that harder to do. He said he has never voted for the president because he dislikes how he treats people and communicates, and his trade policies have caused headaches for his business operations. 'Chaos is our nemesis,' Huether said, echoing a concern many small business owners have voiced for months amid Trump's erratic tariff rollout: 'We can't plan when we don't have a vision of what's going on for the next two or three years.' Business highlights Independent Can Company's wares might already be in your cupboard. The Belcamp, Maryland-based family business, in operation since 1929, makes the packaging for everything from Wegmans' brand of Virginia peanuts to the Santa Claus tins filled with chocolates or popcorn that hit grocery shelves around the holidays. The company manufactures cans and other containers for popular consumer brands including Swiss Miss, Zippo and Titleist. One of its newest customers is the lip balm maker Burt's Bees. Independent Can Company — whose annual sales have averaged $130 million in recent years — used to have more than 30 domestic competitors in specialty can making, Huether estimated, many of which were family-owned businesses. Today there are just a couple left, he said. The company employs about 400 people across its four plants. A fifth, in Iowa, closed in 2024 due to what Huether described as a combination of clients' shifting packaging needs and Trump's first-term steel tariffs. He secured some exemptions from those levies at the time but still had to raise prices in 2018 by anywhere from 8-16%, depending on the product. Independent Can Company's manufacturing process relies on a highly specialized material called tinplate, a very thin-gauge, flat-rolled steel with an electro-coated surface of tin. Developed as a corrosion-resistant material safe for food packaging, tinplate supplies are limited — the product makes up only about 2% of global steel production, Huether estimated, and it's only roughly 1% of the steel produced in the U.S. Up until about 2007, Independent Can Company bought most of its tinplate domestically but now sources most of it overseas — the majority from Germany, along with Taiwan and South Korea — due to foreign suppliers' quality, service and price. The business adopted more efficient production systems starting in the 1990s, which included a new printing line in 2000 that uses a larger sheet size, boosting efficiency. The issue: steel coils large enough for that system aren't available domestically right now, partly because American steel companies haven't kept up with manufacturers' needs, Huether said. In addition, the materials Independent Can Company uses are about twice as expensive in the U.S. than in Asia and about 20% more expensive than in Europe, Huether estimated. Tariff impacts The cost squeeze is weighing on Independent Can Company as it struggles to rebound from a rough two years, amid pandemic-related supply-chain issues and cost swings. Those challenges left the company with a lot of expensive steel that it had to sell at a loss. But after tens of millions in capital investments, including in automation, Independent Can Company is finally settling into a new normal that Huether expects to put the company back on surer footing this year, tariffs notwithstanding. Still, access to affordable tinplate is non-negotiable and remains a wild card. That material alone represents 50-75% of its products' prices, Huether estimated. With tariff exemptions removed in March, Independent Can Company began paying Trump's 25% levies on all its imported tinplate, a steep new expense that Huether said forced the business to hike prices on some products by 8-16%. After the duties were raised to 50% in June, the company imposed another round of 8-16% increases. 'This adjustment is necessary to ensure that we can continue to provide you with the high-quality products and service you have come to expect,' Huether informed clients in a statement on the company's website earlier this year. 'We've really absorbed the amount of the tariffs that we can absorb,' he told NBC News. 'It's going to be passed through.' Bringing the shine back to 'Made in America' Huether is relieved that Independent Can Company hasn't lost business yet since the price hikes, but that worry is ever-present. There's a risk that some companies will switch to cheaper packaging, he said, including options that may not be as safe or recyclable. But it's hard to know how things will shake out… 'You instantly go to: Well, is this going to happen, or is it a tactic to get somebody to do something else? Is it real or not?' he said. In the meantime, Huether doubts whether rewriting U.S. trade policy can bring back American manufacturing overnight, or even in a few years. Huether believes in expanding vocational training in schools and eliminating the stigma often associated with certain career paths. 'We do not have the skills in this country to manage it,' he said, nodding to a reality that companies and analysts across a range of industrial sectors have underscored since the trade war began. 'It takes one to five years to get a full manufacturing plant up and running,' Huether said. 'We need time to do this.' What's more, 'We need predictability and consistency,' he added. 'We need to understand what the rules are. If the rules are constantly changing, we don't know how to play the game.' Emily Lorsch Emily Lorsch is a producer at NBC News covering business and the economy.
